


Catharsis

by HobbitFeels



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ableist Language, John is angry, M/M, Post His Last Vow, Season 3 fix-it, i'm bitter, if you loved His Last Vow you may not like my thoughts on the matter, not a case fic, pre-season 4, sherlock is fed up with john's obliviousness, they get into a bit of a row
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-14
Updated: 2014-01-14
Packaged: 2018-01-08 17:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1135275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HobbitFeels/pseuds/HobbitFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John finds out one truth too many about Mary...and finds out Sherlock already knew.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to soothe my rather icky post-His Last Vow feels. My first go writing in this fandom.

John stood in the living room of 221B, hands clenched at his sides, staring at Sherlock. He sucked at the insides of his cheek and stretched his neck to one side, trying to keep his cool while his brain raced through the millions of things he wanted to say.

“When?”  
“Does it matter?”  
“ _When_ , Sherlock?”

Moriarty--or someone clever posing as Moriarty--did not waste time making contact after his startling, national reappearance: inferring things, dropping bombshells, and toying with them from afar. He also wasted no time letting John know Mary was not carrying his child. Threatened with proof (goddammit, did there have to be video?) as well as the likelihood the paternity test would not work out in John’s favor, Mary made another tearful confession, again appealing to John’s just and loyal nature. Twice was too much for him. He left her where she stood crying and demanded Sherlock take him to Baker Street, where he currently stood demanding answers.

“When I discovered she was not Mary Morstan,” Sherlock admitted.

John tilted back on his feet, neck straining, chin jutting upward. His mouth was open in an incredulous smile that was anything except joyful. He licked over his bottom lip while choosing his next words. 

“And when? When did you think would be a fitting occasion to tell me this?” he asked tightly.  
“'Never' was the thought that occurred,” Sherlock said calmly.  
“Nev--” John stepped backward on a foot, crossed his arms, and rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. “Never? You never saw a moment when it might be a good idea to tell your supposed best friend that he was _raising someone else's child_?” John’s temper got the best of him as he spoke, shouting the last words.  
Sherlock replied as though he were declining tea. “Not really, John.”  
“’Not really?’ Not really, he says,” John muttered. 

He rolled his lips in and took a breath to calm himself. The worst part was the likely father was not even a heavy such Magnussen or Moriarty themselves, but one of Moriarty’s lower henchmen. He wasn’t even sure it was done at Moriarty’s request. It had been hinted she knew him when they were contract killers. John's rage flared anew. He stepped into Sherlock’s face and spoke with a placid tone Sherlock well knew hid some of John’s most volatile emotions. 

“Listen carefully, Sherlock Holmes. You were disgraced and I kept my faith. You died and I mourned you. You returned and I forgave you. You agreed to be best man at a wedding to a woman I didn’t even know, defended her, and kept this secret for her. You owe me, do you understand? _You owe me_ an explanation.”

Sherlock looked down into the wild eyes of a desperate, wounded man. He tried to will down his own pulse, attempting to avoid a confrontation neither one of them could handle at present.

He swallowed and said, “I do not think so.”  
“Goddammit! This is not a fucking game, Sherlock! This is my life! This isn’t one of your stupid gambits and I’m not an experiment.” John grabbed Sherlock by the collar. “So bloody help me, you are going to tell me what I want to know.”

Sherlock broke John’s grip expertly, pushing him back. “Because you did not want to know! You wanted your perfect normal life, with your pretty little wife, sprogging out children! You could not wait to get married, though you missed the life...but your perfect Mary fantasy got even better with her deception! Admit it--once it turned out your dearest wife could also provide you all the danger you craved with sex and kids added to the bargain, you did not care what her past was!”  
“I did care!”  
“No, you didn’t, or it would not matter whose child she carries right now!" Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "You didn’t even _bother_ looking at the flash drive she gave you, did you?”  
“I didn’t need to!”  
“Obviously, you did.”  
John kept taking the same three steps back, forth, or sideways when he spoke. “You were so offended by the notion I might try to move forward and do right by my wife and child that you neglected to tell me the truth?”  
“I left the choice up to you and I’m sorry you chose wrong but it was _your choice_ , John.”  
“But if I would have known, I would have chosen differently!” John flung his arms to the sides.  
Sherlock stepped forward, pointing purposefully. “She gave you all the information you would have needed. You did not need Sherlock Holmes for that!”  
“But you knew!”  
“You could have known, too! You ignored it!” Sherlock turned to the side and bounced on his toes, looking toward the mantle  
“It was important, Sherlock!” John was still gesticulating.  
Sherlock snapped his head to the side to look at John. “How was it important?”  
“Because it matters if the baby was mine!”  
Sherlock spun around fully to face John again. “How? How does that matter? You already decided you loved her--loved a woman who didn’t exist, by the way, because she had lied to you the whole time you were together--and that was going to be good enough for you. Good enough to love a dangerous stranger and let her raise your child without knowing a thing about her past--or if it was going to show up on your doorstep one day and cause all of you real harm. You claimed to be in love with her but you were in love with a construct of her mind! She invented the character of Mary Morstan but you did not even care. Tell me, if you could look past all of that, how does this make any difference?”  
“Because I was only staying for the baby!" John blurted out in a burst of passion. "If I would have known it was not mine I would have left!”  
Sherlock was unfazed. “If you would have looked at the bloody flash drive, you would’ve known what questions to ask!”

John's agitation melted into his dangerous calm again. Sherlock preferred John ranting, to be honest.

“You saw it, didn’t you,” John said quietly.  
Sherlock's reply was flippant. “Picked your pocket. It wasn’t hard.”  
John laughed mirthlessly, shaking his head and palming his forehead.  
“Is that what this is? ‘Let’s see how far we can push John Watson before he snaps?’ After all I’ve done for you?” John moved back into Sherlock’s personal space. “I didn’t think even you could be so cruel.”

Sherlock grabbed John’s shirt and pulled him forward into a hard, unkind kiss, more teeth than lips in John's open-mouthed surprise. They could both taste a light bite of blood. John did not yield, but he did not fight. Sherlock threw him backward forcefully.

He said, “I picked out dresses. I taught you to dance with your wife. I sent invitations and folded napkins. I watched the two of you bill and coo for hours. I personally composed the very waltz to which you danced. I stepped aside, left you to your sex holiday, and did not bother you even after weeks had gone by--all without so much as a look in from you. I peed in a bloody cup for you, John Watson. I took you back out with me once I realized you were having withdrawals from the battlefield. What else, what else? Let’s see…oh, that’s right! _I was shot in the chest by your darling wife_ and I was told I flat-lined once before recovering. You stayed by her side in spite of knowing this, however _not_ knowing so much as her real name. Your only concern was building your perfect little family with even less call for me than before because you had danger and domesticity in one pretty, blonde package. In full realization of this, I defended Mary and came up with some ridiculous story about how her shooting me close range in the chest was somehow a mercy shot. Truly, John, you are an idiot. I drugged my family and killed her blackmailer in the coldest of blood, all so you could have the life you wanted--a life that had no room for me. Mycroft put me on a plane to my death--oh, didn't you realize?--and all you could do was shake my hand when it was offered. I did it all for you to live this stupid, simple little life you had talked yourself into wanting because you did not want to entertain for a single moment that you‘ve been in love with me." 

Sherlock leaned into John, eyes flashing fire. “Now you have the unmitigated gall to stand there and tell me _I_ owe _you_? That _I_ am cruel?”

Sherlock backed off and gestured toward the mirror. “If you wish to view the heartless one here, look no further than that.”

“You arrogant dick! In love with you?” John exclaimed.  
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “All those revelations and that is what you have chosen to fixate upon in your simple little mind?”  
“I think your suggesting I’m a latent homosexual takes a little precedence here! I’m a married man!” John realized he was so angry he was shaking.  
“Barely! The whole thing has been a sham…and you did it in the first place to escape my absence in your life." 

Sherlock dropped into his chair dramatically. 

“Y-you--you--no, sod this,” John huffed in frustration, storming up the stairs. 

He paused about halfway up before he remembered. He descended a bit slower, declaring at the bottom, “I don’t live here anymore."

Sherlock remained in his chair and regarded him. John moved to the door, opening it and standing still for a moment because he did not know exactly where he could storm off _to_. He willed his feet to carry him down the stairs and out onto the pavement.

*****

Sherlock fiddled with his phone, waiting for a text from John that did not come. The afternoon had grown later and more dreary; rain clouds set in and covered the pavement with cold, persistent drops. He had not meant to let his frustration get the most of him, particularly today. John had pushed him hard, blaming him for everything when all he had attempted to do was give John the things he wanted...even if John hadn’t wanted them from _him_.

Mycroft had been right; John had moved on. It was simple science for Sherlock, both in the field for two years as well as when he arrived back home: adapt or die. He had adapted, and it still was not enough for John. Sherlock had bled for him, died for him…he did not know what else one person could possibly do for another and yet he was called cruel. “You owe me,” John had said. Sherlock had nothing of greater value than his own life and he’d already given that twice over. Looking back on their row objectively, Sherlock saw few alternatives other than an angry outburst at that juncture on his part. He still felt regret.

Sherlock heard the door close and John’s familiar footfalls on the stairs. John walked in with hair mildly wet from the rain ( _some walking, caught in the rain, coffee, cab back_ ) and stood behind his chair with his hands settled along the top of it. 

“I realized I do not live anywhere anymore,” John said. “It is a rather sobering thought to realize one has nowhere to have a good strop.”

Sherlock looked at him but said nothing. 

“You had gotten rid of my chair,” John ventured.  
Sherlock clasped his hands in front of his chest and leaned back comfortably. “I suppose even you might have realized by now the excuse I gave you was a ruse and nothing more. In the interest of disclosure, I admit I could not bear it empty, and I could bear it even less with someone else sitting in it.”  
“ _Janine_ “, John thought bitterly.  
“You brought it back, though," said John aloud.  
Sherlock nodded. “Its occupation was no longer under threat. Additionally, I had thought you would be sitting in it more frequently.”  
John recalled when he noticed its return. “You thought I would move back in once I found out about Mary.”  
Sherlock shrugged almost imperceptibly. “That was your decision to make. You made it.”

John smoothed his hair back along his forehead to stop the occasional drips.

“You were ready for me to move back in,” John pressed.  
“I still am. It might not be where you choose to live, but you cannot truthfully say you haven’t a place to live as long as I have one.”

John took off his damp jacket and sat on the edge of the coffee table closest to Sherlock's chair. He rested his elbows on his thighs and clasped his hands between his knees.

“You seem to think you have how I feel all sussed out in that brain of yours. How do _you_ feel, Sherlock?”  
“I told you at your wedding-”  
John cut him off. “-I’m not talking about the brotherly, best friends forever sort of thing. I’m talking about, um, love.”  
Sherlock, annoyed, reiterated, “I told you at your wedding how I felt about you. Really, John, I wonder sometimes how you manage in your profession with as little attention as you give matters. I could not have been any more plain.”

John replayed highlights from that day, realizing for the first time how vivid his memories of Sherlock were because he remembered those parts frequently and fondly. 

“Oh God. In your warped, genius, crazed mind, you married me that day, didn’t you?”  
“I publicly professed my love, made a vow, and I even threw my bouquet, so to speak. Poor Janine, she really thought she was going to be the next to wed, too.”  
“Jesus, Sherlock! When were you going to tell me?”  
“Ne-”  
John finished for him. “-Never, I know. So everything you did--I mean _everything_ \--was because you wanted me to be happy? With Mary?”  
“You chose her, John. What was I to do?”  
“Tell me she was a lying psychopath?”  
“I tried that. It only seemed to excite you more.”  
John laughed. “You are a bastard. A total bastard.”  
“You’ve spent Christmas with my parents, John. I assure you I am not.” Sherlock quirked a smile.  
John’s laughter died down to a huff and he looked down at his clasped hands. “I walked for about an hour before the rain came. Spent another thirty minutes getting a terrible coffee and took a cab back here…all of which I’m sure you already knew.”  
“Naturally.”  
“I spent that time thinking, but not about Mary. I thought about you,” John paused, waiting for a reaction.  
“Oh?”  
“I thought about the things you've said, the things you’ve done, and the things I did not realize you had been doing for me. I recalled the times you would smile or our glances would catch a moment or two longer than what was probably appropriate and how I would get a rush. I never considered perhaps it was not normal for a man to fondly watch his best friend napping on the couch. I ignored a lot of things, I suppose.”  
“Please do arrive at a point, John.”  
“I’m saying that I hate it when you’re right,” John sighed.  
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth rose up in a smirk. “No, you don’t.”  
John chuckled. “Fine. Not all the time.”

Sherlock gazed at John fondly but did not move from his spot. John was a bit confused. Were Sherlock a woman, she’d be all weepy in his arms and they’d be kissing right about now.

“Just so I’m clear--simple little mind and all that--you did just admit that you loved me enough to appropriate my wedding?” asked John.  
“I did.”  
“For my part, did I just tell you that I loved you?”  
“You did not say the actual words, but you inferred I was correct about your homo-romantic feelings in regards to me.”  
“Right. Thought so. Well,” John stood.  
Sherlock remained where he was.  
John tilted his head, raising his forehead in question. “What do I have to do to get another kiss, then?”  
“What about Moriarty?”  
“Not here right now,” John said.  
“Mary?”  
John sighed. “Over.”  
“Don’t you think you need some time?”  
“Sherlock Holmes, calling for restraint? Perhaps my coffee was drugged--I do believe I’m hearing things.”  
Sherlock smirked again and fixed John with a look.  
John exhaled heavily. “Perhaps some of what you’ve figured out about Mary might help me prove my marriage never happened since Mary Morstan did not exist. That sounds like a big mess and a headache for another day. Moriarty is out there and with any luck, he’ll stay out there for a couple hours. I know you’re probably jumping out of your skin with calculations over his motivations, next move, or whatever it is you’re trying to crack open in there, but I could really use a night of feeling something other than dread and heartache.”

Sherlock stood. He had spent most of John’s absence pondering John and not Moriarty. He told himself he really should devote the next several hours to lining up the clues Moriarty had given them to find out his latest game, but John was close and warm and Sherlock’s own body was traitorous. 

Sherlock reached out a hand and cupped the nape of John’s neck. “Does it make me too pedestrian if I say I need to hear it?”  
John slipped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “I suppose it would only be fair, considering you’ve been screaming it with everything you’ve said and done for months now. I do love you. I think I’ve loved you for a long time.”  
Sherlock whispered, “Obvious,” before dipping down to claim John’s mouth. 

They made their way to Sherlock’s bedroom and shed their clothes. Mary and Moriarty were problems for the morning. Tonight was finally theirs.


End file.
